


Remission

by AnObscureNameEludesMe



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Psychological Drama, Recovery, Suspense, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3987961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnObscureNameEludesMe/pseuds/AnObscureNameEludesMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bucky’s mental frailty claims its first victim since his move to Stark Towers, Steve Rogers decides to shelter his friend from the law and from his fellow Avengers. But when Bucky’s actions set off a chain of unforeseen consequences, Captain America finds himself treading the fine line between champion of justice and common criminal to save what’s left of his childhood friend. Can he reconcile his actions with the rest of the Avengers? With himself? Or has it all gone too far?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remission

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This story represents Steve and Bucky more as a bromance than anything else, but I tried to write their interactions in a way that would leave room for interpretation, that way the reader can form their own opinions and enjoy it at their own level! There will be violence and language and mature themes but probably nothing sexual, so for now I'll keep the rating mild. We'll see where it goes from there ;) Reviews, of course, are greatly appreciated.

                It was around the sixth cup of coffee that Steve realized the caffeine was no longer having any effect. The first cup had been forced on him by a bleary-eyed Natasha at five in the morning. He sat next to her on the way from Stark Towers to S.H.I.E.L.D’s unmarked headquarters in lower Manhattan, watching nervously as her nails dented the styrofoam cup, threatening to puncture the sides and soak the private car’s leather interior. The second, third and fourth round of caffeine came during a three hour stretch of thorough research, which the available Avengers were forced to participate in despite their obvious affinity for assignments of a more rough-and-tumble nature. Steve wasn’t quite modern enough to stare down a computer screen for hours the way Clint and Natasha could, so he opted to fetch drinks at every opportunity. At two in the afternoon the tired trio had been relieved of desk work only to catch a jet to Mansfield, Ohio to corner a S.H.I.E.L.D fugitive who had been spotted lurking outside a motel. The prospect of an assignment with tangible results eased Steve’s resentment of the long and sudden flight, but the excitement was short lived as the trip ultimately ended in little more than a wild goose chase and a dismal trip to a coffee shop to drown their sorrows while the jet refueled. Tony had handed Steve the sixth cup at ten o’ clock that night as he made his way sluggishly into the foyer of Stark Towers and towards the private elevator that led to the Avengers apartments. The drink was two parts sickly sweet flavoring and one part apology for being too busy to help out with “superhero-y” duties that day, and Steve accepted it without complaint. As soon as he entered the elevator the smell of fake caramel enveloped him, and the accompanying headache insisted he chuck the beverage as soon as possible. He held the cup as far out in front of him as possible as the elevator dinged and the doors opened to reveal his apartment.

                Steve heard gunshots. On instinct he hung back, flattening himself out against the far wall of the lift. As his senses sharpened he quickly came to realize that the noise was loud but tinny, one of the clever impersonations of reality created by the flat screen TV in the living room. The shots ceased suddenly, replaced by a very nasal-sounding woman. Steve rounded the corner and eased considerably when he found precisely what he had suspected. Bucky glanced up at him from the couch, seated with his gangly legs folded in front of him, swaddled in a blanket that looked very much like the one on Steve’s bed. The room was dark except for the erratic flashes of color that spilled from the television screen and played with the lines of Bucky’s face, morphing his appearance from cold and calculating to open and childlike. The screen flared white just long enough for light to catch on the ridged metal fingers that clutched the remote.

                “Hey Buck.”

                He had been watching Steve studiously, but at the greeting he ducked his head and focused his attention back on the screen. Steve slouched visibly. Ever since Tony had allowed the ex-foe to stay, Steve had realized that the road to recovery was not a steady incline; it dipped just as fast and suddenly as it rose.  There were goods and bads, and late nights often tended towards the latter for Bucky. Steve slipped past the couch and into the kitchen, setting the coffee down on the counter and keeping a watchful eye on his friend from over the counter.

                “You hungry?” He prompted, throwing the fridge doors open and noting the overturned carton of leftover Chinese, an obvious indication that someone had beaten him to the punch. As predicted, Bucky shook his head rapidly in reply.

                “Me neither.” Steve sighed, having guzzled too much coffee to feel anything but disgust at the idea of a meal. When it became clear Bucky wouldn’t be offering a pleasant “how was your day”, Steve made his way to the bathroom, rushing through all the routine preparations for bed and shucking his clothes for a quick rinse-off. The shower curtain was damp between his fingers, the metal spout still dripping into the basin of the tub. Steve twisted the handle and tipped his head back into the lukewarm downpour, directing his gaze upwards toward the ceiling. A trail of color caught his attention, a smear of red. He frowned. Blood.  Steve turned, wrenching the handle up and slowing the water to a trickle. The pipes gurgled a protest. It only took him a moment of scrutiny to discover another splotch, this one lining the grout between tub and tile, staining its surface scarlet. Steve swallowed.

                Bucky was clearly on edge as Steve approached him, stripped down to a faded tee and a pair of “hilarious” star-spangled sweatpants that he had inevitably been forced to accept after the team persisted in hiding them throughout his apartment. Steve settled himself against the arm of the sofa to maintain a safe zone between him and his friend, and watched from the corner of his eye as the tension gradually seeped out of Bucky’s shoulders. The two remained silent for a long while, Steve sneaking worried glances whilst pretending to watch the conflict taking place on screen. It didn’t take very long for him to notice that Bucky’s gaze was fixed, not tracking the movement on screen or darting between the faces that appeared. His mind was clearly elsewhere. Suddenly his weight shifted, and Steve startled as the other man tipped sideways and sprawled himself out across the sofa cushions, burying his cheek into the leather. The safe zone was gone, and Steve’s hand drifted despite his best efforts, tugging Bucky’s long hair free from one of the hair ties Natasha had loaned him. The strands were soft and damp between his fingers. Bucky twitched as Steve’s nails grazed his scalp but made no effort to stop him. On screen someone was yelling again, an angry, slurred noise that might as well have been in another language for all the attention Steve was paying. He hadn’t seen Bucky’s arm move, but suddenly something bumped his thigh. He accepted the remote, finding his way to the guide button in the dim lighting and settling on a good old-fashioned news channel, decidedly uninterested in absorbing any extra drama into his life, especially the fake kind. The anchors announced a local news update. Bucky’s metal fingers clenched into a fist with a faint whirr.

                “Change it.” He gruffed, and Steve did so without question. He had noticed something far more pressing than their differing tastes in television, or the realization that Bucky had spoken to him for the first time that day. The clenched metal fist, exposed in the harsh glow of the television, was spattered with a dark substance.

                “Lights up.”

                Stark Tower’s mainframe obeyed instantly, leaving Bucky no time to withdraw the bloody appendage before Steve had seized his wrist. Not that it would do anything to stop Bucky, who had defeated the Avengers (with the exception of Tony after resorting to the armor), in a particularly brutal arm wrestling tournament. That had been a good day. Steve got the feeling this would not be.. Bucky stood, and Steve rose with him, a challenge. Then Bucky wrenched his arm free with so much force that Steve staggered backwards, helpless to stop him as he retreated to the elevator. Steve wielded the remote, flipping back to the news, where a somber-looking woman stood in front of an alley illuminated only by the flashing of police lights.

                “I’m Jordan Jacobs reporting live just off of the corner of West 45th Street and 10th Avenue –"

                “Turn it off.” Bucky’s voice was strained. He turned away from the elevator doors and fixed Steve with a menacing look.

                “Stay.” Steve commanded with all the calm he could muster.

                “… two young men appear to have been _beaten_ to death outside The Stallion Bar –“

                “Steve.” It was a plea now, desperation and anger coloring his voice. “I have to go.” He glanced back at the elevator doors, rocking back and forth on his feet like a runner about to break into a sprint. Steve turned up the volume.

                “… who claims the attacker possessed a metal prosthetic, which he used with deadly force –”

                Bucky snapped. The elevator dinged its arrival but he was gone, across the room and reaching for Steve before he could react, before he could register anything but the way Bucky’s face had hardened in a second, something primal and powerful springing to the forefront of his features. Steve had hoped that Bucky would march back over to seize the remote and put an end to the disturbing report, but he knew better by now, knew that he wouldn’t get away so easy. Metal fingers bit into Steve’s throat and squeezed, quelling his attempts to slip away. A knee came up hard into his chest and a shove hastened his breathless descent backwards onto the couch. His muscles went slack as the air whooshed out of his lungs, and Bucky seized the remote as it fell from his open palm. Then he turned, and chucked the plastic box at the television with all his mechanical might. It punched clean through the glass but butted up against the metal backing, leaving the screen cracked and distorted but very much alive. The broadcast continued, and an animal snarl escaped Bucky as he charged the entertainment center, hurling the television to the floor where it finally hissed and died with a bright pop of color. His shoulders rose and fall with each ragged breath, loose hair hanging down over his eyes.

                “Why’d you do it?” Steve’s voice was hollow, his face carefully devoid of emotion, but Bucky turned on him with eyes black as coals. He was on Steve in a second, one knee shoved under his sternum, pinning him in place. Steve shrank into the cushions, remembering what he had done every time before. Remembering not to struggle, not to look like a threat. The man standing over him now was the Winter Soldier, and if he was good at one thing it was eliminating a threat. Steve choked out a noise as a thumb, mercifully human but powerful nonetheless, was jammed into the hollow of his throat, pressing down on his trachea. Tears welled in his eyes but he didn’t move. He fought back the only way he could, by keeping his gaze level with the Soldier’s and mouthing his name, his real name, like a prayer, even as his vision began to gray. The Soldier’s face began to fall; the ugly contortions of rage replaced by a wide-eyed vacancy as he jerked away from Steve and stumbled backwards. In one faltering motion he collapsed to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his face in the space between. Air spilled back into Steve’s lungs with wheezing, shallow gasps. He squeezed his eyes shut to combat the blind spots that had begun to cloud his vision.

                It was the third time Bucky had attacked him since moving in just months ago.  The first was sudden but not particularly brutal; nonetheless he had had bruises to show for it, and the team quickly held a meeting to re-evaluate the threat Bucky posed. The second time had been the most painful. Steve had been drifting, bundled up in his bedsheets when the mattress shifted suddenly, lightly, as if a cat had landed atop the comforter. The bed shuddered beside him and then the room was silent again. Beside him, the intruder exhaled. Steve slept well in the short time he had left to him. Then at 3 that morning, he awoke with a blinding flash of pain. He found himself slumped on the floor, bits of drywall scattered at his feet. Looming over him, perched on the edge of the bed was Bucky, with a look devoid of anything but terror. The pounding had been brutal, but as luck would have it the tower’s mainframe kept a constant ear out for disturbances, and a minute later Iron Man burst on the scene to find a much bloodied Steve and his attacker. A sharp blow to the temple had ended the conflict, but it was obvious that Tony would have liked to do so much more. The next morning the team, led by Stark, staged what could only be referred to as an intervention. After an hour of bickering punctuated only by pitying glances as he pled his case, Steve finally came out on top. In the end he had been forced to pull from everything he had; his seniority, his continued contributions to the Avengers Initiative and Bucky’s theoretical importance to their continued hunt for H.Y.D.R.A.  But the case he pled couldn’t have been farther from the truth; the truth that Steve needed Bucky to stay because the two had been inseparable before the freeze, because the 21st century was that much less spectacular without his best friend beside him, and because to lose whatever was left of Bucky after finally getting him back was too much to bear. The truth was emotional and impossible to justify to the Avengers. Sometimes he couldn’t even justify it to himself.

                Steve touched his throat, feeling the ridges of swollen skin beneath his fingertips. There would be bruises in the morning, bruises that the team would notice eventually. He looked to the elevator, expecting one of them to leap onto the scene, alerted by the mainframe after Bucky’s assault on the television. He wondered what they would do this time. He decided he would never find out. Bucky remained fetal on the floor beside him, back pressed against the low edge of the coffee table, hands clutching his knees. Now that the room was brightly lit, Steve could see the thick lines of dry blood crusted in the ridges of Bucky’s silver hand. He exhaled shakily.

                “We’re going to wash that off. And then you’re going to tell me what happened.”

                It didn’t take much more than a rag to work the crust of gore free, and he tried not to notice as the red water swirled around the edges of the kitchen sink. He could feel Bucky watching him, and his gaze darted to the side. Not watching him exactly, but eyeing what were probably angry red lines marring his neck. His face was unreadable.

“Start talking.” Steve ordered, his voice still rasping from the damage to his throat.

                Bucky’s gaze darted back down. His throat bobbed. He watched Steve’s slow progress on his arm for a moment before his lips parted with a low breath.

                “There was a girl.”

               


End file.
